Father May I?
by Cyanxgray
Summary: With a demon leaving omens and dead bodies wherever he goes, the Winchesters follow his lead, hoping to stop his chain of death and terror. Little do they know, this demon is fulfilling orders straight from his father, and Lucifer has big plans for them.


Chasing a demon gave Dean a thrill. One he hadn't had in a long time, so he welcomed it kindly. He sped up, gripping the Impala's wheel tightly. They'd seen omens popping up all over this small town lately, and once a solid lead had shown itself, they didn't hesitate to get movin'. Dean cranked up the radio, which was playing "Stairway to Heaven" at the moment, and he smiled to himself, bobbing his head slightly. He turned his head to grin at his brother, who rolled his eyes in response.  
Sam was used to Dean's antics on long drives. His older sibling was clearly excited to have a case ahead of them. "Turn it down, please," Sam tried in vain to speak over the blaring notes. Dean didn't take notice, and Sam scowled, reaching over and turning it down himself.  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sammy," Dean defensively replaced the radio dial with his own hand, "What was the first thing I said when you got in this car?"  
"Whatever, dude…"  
"No, no, what'd I say, come on," the older brother urged, peering at him with raised brows. "I know you remember."  
With a sigh, Sam recited the words grumpily, "Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole…."  
"Atta boy," Dean chuckled, turning the music up again. He turned his attention back to the road, lip syncing Zeppelin's lyrics like he had never been interrupted.

He had them. Finally, stupid humans decided to catch on. Cain shook his head, chuckling. And these were the supreme beings on this Earth? Please. He almost ran over an armadillo this morning that was smarter than the Winchesters. Upon being assigned to the aforementioned morons, Cain was excited. But this was starting to become annoying, and it had only just begun. He wanted a real chase, something to challenge him. He was one of the best demons out there, and he felt like his father had assigned him to a babysitting gig. Scowling, Cain drove on. "Dean Winchester, you'd better be worth it," he growled. Even as he said it, though, he knew it would be worth it. His father always had a plan, was always a step ahead. It didn't matter if Cain knew the whole plan, only that Lucifer knew. Only that it was all coming together.

"Okay, so there aren't anymore killings in the last town, but the next town over just had three, in two nights," Sam said, eyes scanning the laptop screen in front of him. He looked up to grimace at Dean, who scowled.  
"Bastard knows we're after 'im," he grumbled. "And here I thought we had the element of surprise…." Sam's frown deepened.  
"Well, I suggest we get moving, before he hurts anyone else. This isn't an ordinary demon, Dean. I think he knows what he's doing."  
"As opposed to the other stupid ass demons we've met along the way? Don't seem to matter to you much, as long as ya shack up with 'em before they screw you over."  
"Dean, come on." Sam was really getting sick of the guilt trips after what had happened with Ruby. "I'm sick of having this conversation."  
"Well, it's your fault we ever have to," His older brother spat, drinking his coffee. Almost immediately, he blanched, since said coffee was undoubtedly burnt, and badly made. "…Whatever, I'll be in the car." And with that, Dean was on his feet, and striding out the door of the diner they sat in, leaving Sam sighing, as he paid the bill and packed his laptop away.

"You're really immature, you know that?" Sam said as he folded his long frame into the low Impala. He pulled the door shut, and he peered at his now stony-faced sibling. "Well?"  
Dean didn't make eye contact, instead, he said to the windshield in front of him, "Where're we headed?"  
Sam sighed once more, and pulled out the road map, directing how to get to the next town, hopefully before this demon hurt anyone else.  
*****

Hours later, Dean was pulling into a small town. "This is it, right?" A nod from his brother, who still had his nose in the map, confirmed it. Sam pulled his bag up onto his lap, getting his things together silently. Sighing, Dean slid down in his seat, mulling over things for the billionth time.

Dean didn't want to think. All he gave a rat's ass about right now was that douchewad strutting his stuff, killing anyone in his way. Obviously, that wasn't true; Dean cared about a lot more. To name just a few of the things heaping his plate: a brother who was apparently addicted to consuming Demon blood, the Apocalypse was looming—oh! And he was supposed to bring it on in the first place, since he's apparently the vessel of the archangel, Michael. And here's the real kicker. Sammy's Lucifer's meat suit, and they're supposed to be hosting the biggest prize fight of the century. Dean thought angels were the good guys, but turns out those sons of bitches could be real pains in the ass too. They wanted him and his brother to consent to Michael and Lucifer's possession; they wanted them to bring on a war, killing billions. All Dean had to say to that was, "Hell no." After all this unwanted thinking, Dean looked up to see Sam had been talking to him.  
"Dean? Hello?"  
"What?"  
"I said, do you wanna find a motel or something, or just sit here in the parking lot of a Walgreens?"  
"Oh, yeah, sorry," Dean mumbled, turning the keys, and starting the car again. He peeled out of the parking lot, and searched for somewhere he and his brother could stay that night.

Cain peered into a gnarly looking bowl full of innocent blood, eyes a sleek jet black. He had left another trail for the Winchesters, and it was time to call and check in. Breathing calmly, he awaited a response. Suddenly a voice rang clear in his head.

"_Cain, have you made progress?"  
_"Yes, Father, things are going well…slower than I first imagined, but they're taking the bait. I assume they'll just now be arriving in town. We'll be meeting soon."

"_Good, good…" _the voice was oddly calm, and it echoed through Cain's head with authority,_ "I want you to keep me posted. Tell me when you have them."  
_"Of course, Father." The connection was broken before Cain could say anymore. Sighing, he put down the bowl, eyes fading back to his vessel's original hue. Tonight, he'd let them find him, just as his father planned.  
*****

Sam was leaning on the hood of the Impala when Dean stepped out of their motel room and out to the parking lot the next morning. His younger brother held out a cup of coffee to him, which Dean took, mumbling in thanks. After he'd taken a sip and let it register, the warm liquid slowly woke him up and he asked, "So where do we start?"  
"Well, I don't think the demon has any sort of pattern in its killing, or real reason. It's just leaving a string of killings, creative ones too."  
"They can get pretty creative," Dean said, scowling, "this is like arts and crafts for these assholes." Dean knew all too well what sorts of methods of pain and torture demons learned and perfected in the Pit. He himself had been the victim…and the torturer. Dean drank more of his coffee, before leaning on the car next to Sam. "So, our first step is tracking him. Where'd he kill last?"  
Sam turned and picked up the small pile of papers he'd printed up from where they lie on the Impala's hood. Sifting through them, he said, "They killed Annabelle Warner, she was found dead in her own home yesterday morning," Then, looking up from the paper, he added, "She was completely gutted. Like a fish. And like I said, no real motive, just your usual senseless demon killing. What I don't get is, whatever he's looking for, satisfaction, or maybe revenge, and we haven't caught up enough—he hasn't found it. He's killed almost six people in less than two weeks, Dean."  
"I get it; this is a big deal…" Dean mumbled, but inside, he was fuming. This ass wasn't gonna hurt anyone else, not while he was in town. "Let's head to the murder scene, that Warner chick's place," He said quietly, moving around the car to slide in, and start the ignition. He waited for Sam to get in too and peeled out of the parking lot, gravel flying up when he revved the engine.

Sam directed him to the house, while opening the Impala's glove compartment and sorting through their array of fake IDs and badges. "What are we today?"  
Dean didn't take his eyes off of the road, "Ah, FBI, maybe? D'you think they've been by? I doubt it, small town killing like this…" he mused.  
"Yeah, okay." Sam handed Dean a badge, and pocketed his own. We washed the suits right? Maybe we should have changed."  
"Just go as is…I don't think anyone in this town'll really put things together in time to realize we were fakin' it."  
"Hope you're right…" Sam said. He pointed and directed Dean to turn left into the neighborhood where Annabelle Warner lived happily just the day before.

"Why would the FBI want to investigate my mom's death?"  
"Well, it was pretty…grotesque," Sam tried to word this gently—he was, after all, talking to Rena Warner, Annabelle's daughter.  
Rena arched one elegant brow up slightly, skeptically, but didn't argue any further. She was attractive, with sandy brown hair that hung past her shoulders. She had bangs that reached her eyebrows, and they were swept to the side slightly. Dean found himself putting on his most charming smirk almost automatically, a hardwired reaction around attractive women—even those in mourning. "Okay, I guess, come inside," she said, not losing eye contact with Sam. She hadn't really seemed to notice Dean, or she didn't care. The older Winchester scowled to himself when Sam chuckled teasingly as they made their way inside the house.

Sam glanced around the inside of the home. Ironically, Annabelle must have been quite religious, as there were crosses, crucifixes and other signs of the Christian faith plastered about the living room. He'd quickly venture to say that the rest of the now-empty home probably held even more relics of her religion. Sam wondered if all this time studying the Bible, Annabelle had ever really believed in Demons, or even had an inkling that one would be the cause of her demise.

"Please, sit down," Rena murmured distantly, gesturing to the couch in the living room where they stood somewhat awkwardly. Sam and Dean took the offer, sitting down and smiling in a way they both hoped was reassuring. After a moment of silent eye-contact, Sam started with the questions.

"Erm, so did you see anything strange about…your mother's death?"  
Rena's brows knitted together for a moment, before moving up in a valiant attempt to become one with her hairline. "'Strange,'" she repeated, incredulously, "she was gutted like the Bass my damn uncle caught last Spring!"  
"R-right, we understand…Maybe another direction, " Sam said, apologetically, "Uh, well, did your mom have any enemies, anyone who'd have a grudge against her?"  
She shook her head, frowning. "Everyone loved Mom, no one would want to…." She trailed off, going quiet for a moment before looking up at the brothers with teary eyes. "Sorry…"  
"Don't worry about it, we know this is difficult," Dean said, smiling sadly. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to Rena who took it gratefully. "Now, um, your mom seemed to be very religious," He began carefully, once she seemed to have composed herself once more.  
"Yeah, she was really ah…devout," Rena murmured, glancing at the large, ancient-looking Bible that sat on the coffee table between the three of them.  
They asked a few more questions after that, but nothing seemed to lead them anywhere. "Okay, Ms. Warner," Sam said, sighing. "I think we have everything we need…Thank you for your time, and we're very sorry for your loss." She nodded and walked them to the door, saying good bye.

"Well, that well was dry," Dean said, scowling as they ducked into the Impala.  
"So it's like I thought, this demon is just killing senselessly—no motive," Sam said, frowning.  
"Asshole," Dean mumbled, almost growling as he started the car.

Quentin Franco was having a bad day. First, he woke up late. Missed his window to grab some coffee. Then, when he arrived at the office, and grumpily made the disgusting coffee in the break room, he promptly ran into his boss, spilling the scalding hot drink all over both of them. But you could probably cross all those things off, and say he had a great day, up until lunch, when he came home to a freak with sleek black eyes waiting in his house.  
A young man sat at his dinner table, drinking the coffee Quentin hadn't had time to make this morning. "Afternoon," he said amiably. "Home for lunch?"  
"Who the hell are you?" Quentin demanded, frantically grabbing a kitchen knife and holding it out toward the still-unknown man.  
Rolling his eyes, the man stood up, looking annoyed. "Look, I need you to shut up, you're bait." And with that, he swung an arm out toward Franco, who flew back, sprawled up against the wall, struggling helplessly. The man walked up to him, smirking now. He blinked, and his eyes, once hazel, shone pure black in the dimly lit kitchen. "Name's Cain, what's yours?"

Quentin awoke to pain. Not in any particular place, just—pain in general. He was sore almost everywhere, and it took a moment for his vision to adjust. Once things refocused he was able to see he was in his own kitchen, sitting awkwardly in a chair at his dinner table. He was stiff and uncomfortable, as if he'd been asleep here for hours. One glance out the window showed it was at least 7:30 in the evening now. Franco tried to piece together why he hadn't returned to work after his break. The answer suddenly was given, when a hand grabbed a fistful of his hair, and yanked his lolling head upright. He was staring into the mysterious and cruel black eyes of the man who he now remembered to have broken into his home. Cain, he said his name was? Uttering a small gasp as he felt him grip his hair hard, he hissed in a way that he thought was threatening, "Let—let go, you bastard!"  
Cain merely chuckled in response. A sinister grin marred features that were probably once handsome, but that face was long faded away when this hellish creature took hold of the unwilling vessel. He tugged once more at Quentin's hair, eliciting a pathetic whimper from the man, before letting go and leaning back against the table's edge. He nonchalantly shoved both hands into his pockets, peering down at his hostage with mock-pity. He spoke, with an even tone, a small accent in his voice, Quentin couldn't tell what kind. "Hopefully they'll catch on quick enough," He murmured, almost more to himself than to his captive. "At least, before…" He trailed off.  
"Before what?" Quentin tried to keep his voice from quavering.  
Looking up, his grin widening still, if possible, Cain growled. "Before I get bored."

Dean lay on his stomach in their motel room, flipping through channels on the miniscule television set. "Saaaaam," he whined, "There's nothing on TV."  
"What would you like me to do about it?" Sam groaned, typing rapidly on his laptop. "…Hey," he mumbled, brows furrowing as he read.  
"What?" Dean said, into his lumpy motel pillow.  
"Some guy went missing."  
"Where, here?"  
"Yeah, I mean—he's only been gone a few hours, I was checking out this little Neighborhood Watch site, for the complex right down the road. The person who made the report seems a bit paranoid, but…"  
"But we got a demon on the loose," Dean finished, suddenly serious. He rolled off the bed and strode over to the small table where Sam sat, looking over his shoulder at the computer screen. "You think this could be him?"  
Sighing, Sam leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "Could be. But it could also be this guy just working late hours at work."  
"The report says this Quentin Franco guy was supposed to go to his sister's rehearsal dinner tonight—oh, his sister's the one who made the report."  
"Yeah, so again, we have to consider this may just be a paranoid family member," Sam said reasonably. But he knew in his mind they were still going to check this out. "But still, this could be something."  
"Yeah. Okay, what d'you wanna do," Dean said, straightening as Sam shut the computer. "We can head to the dude's place together, or split up, one of us go there, and the other maybe to her rehearsal, or the sister's place, try and piece things together?"  
"No, remember this guy's just killing for shits and giggles," Sam said, "We won't find any real evidence or really important stuff talking to his sis. If Franco's really in trouble we'd waste time asking questions when this demon could be ganking him."  
"Got it," Dean was already grabbing his pistol off the bedside table, and routinely shoving it into the waistband of his jeans. "Let's go."

Quentin had never felt such agony in his life. He writhed as Cain dug a dulled and rusted blade into his side. He tried to call out, but he was incapable of being coherent, and it only came out as a strangled whimper. Again, the knife rubbed and prodded until the rough surface broke his skin. When Cain had first revealed the ancient-looking knife, Quentin almost sighed a breath of relief. Little had he known that the now dull and disgusting knife had probably caused him more pain than a clean, new knife would have.  
Cain only chuckled, licking his lips as he saw the red, sticky liquid seep down Quintin's side. His gaze moved up to the petrified face of his captor. His brows knit together in a contemplative way. He was silent for a moment, but it seemed like ages to Franco, who sat quivering in his seat, breathing in short gasps, trying not to move because it hurt so damn bad. "W-what? What is it?" He managed to ask pathetically.

Grinning in that way that made Quentin shudder, Cain answered evenly, "I think I want an ear," and with that, he moved over to Quentin's side, adjusting the blade just behind the shell of his ear. "Now hold still…I wanna make it a clean cut." Cain concentrated on the ear, sliding the blade in a movement that would sever it easily, but that's when he heard it. He stepped back, straightening up and looking around. His eyes flickered back to their vessels' shade of hazel. Glancing at Quentin, he said, "Sit tight. Don't move or I'll get the other ear next."

Moving to the front door, Cain grinned slowly. "Who's theeeere?" he almost sang, standing to the left of the door, his blade ready.  
As if on cue, the front door was kicked in, revealing just the man Cain wanted to see. Dean stepped inside, a sawed-off shotgun at the ready. He scowled at Cain. "Don't move, asshole." Behind him, his monster of a brother filled the doorway. Cain bit his tongue almost instinctively. Father wouldn't like him bashing his vessel that way. He had to remember not to harm Sam in the next few minutes. Dean, however, was another story entirely.

Sam held out a knife—the one that belonged to that infernal demon, Ruby. Cain knew she deserved some respect luring Sam to break the final seal, but really, it doesn't take much to charm that lummox, now does it? Again, he mentally smacked himself. Stop doing that, focus on the older one. He looked up to see Sam talking to him. "Where's Quentin?" he demanded, blade held out to Cain's face. He turned to lead them, and was immediately prodded in the back with Dean's shotgun. He stopped walking to the kitchen, grinning. "Dean, Dean, Dean…" an animalistic growl ripped through Cain's throat as he twisted around on his oppressor, grasping the short barrel of Dean's gun in both hands, causing him to drop the knife he held. He had a moment of surprise, but he knew he had to use his window wisely, or he'd never regain the upper hand. He quickly yanked down on the gun, pulling Dean down with him. The older Winchester stumbled, cursing. Before he could straighten up, Cain landed a hard kick to his gut. Dean coughed and sputtered for a moment, staggering back. He glared at Cain once he regained his footing. "That all you got, douchewad?"

This time, Sam came at him, knife at the ready. Cain had to think fast. He spun out of the way, grabbing the first thing nearest to him. Luckily it was a very ornate lamp on the side table near the couch, and he swung it up, satisfied when it collided with Sam's head. Sam winced and wobbled on his long legs, eyes fluttering to adjust themselves again. _Okay_, Cain thought, _that was stupid, I just said I wasn't gonna hurt the vessel. Oh well. I suppose I have to improvise. _

Dean came at Cain again. Having dropped his shot gun, he was relying on full brute force now. He tackled Cain to the ground, who grunted when his head hit the wooden floor of Quentin's home. He reached a hand out, fumbling for his knife on the ground. But one glance over told him he'd dropped it almost six feet away. He had to get closer—he needed to do it already. But Dean had Cain pinned, one forearm barring across his chest, and his knee level with Cain's gut. Cain squirmed, but aforementioned knee made what seemed to be a huge effort to become one with his intestinal tract. Cain squirmed but Dean only dug his knee deeper. The demon coughed and gasped from beneath him. He had to get a hit in.  
Dean snarled and pressed down on the piece of shit demon he had pinned to the ground. This asshole wasn't gonna do this anymore. He glanced up at Sam, who was rubbing his temple from being bashed in the face with a goddamn Martha Stewart lamp. "Sammy, you okay?" His younger brother nodded, gripping his knife again readily. "Okay, go grab Franco, check the kitchen."

Nodding once more, Sam moved quickly past the brawl going on here in the living room to save Quentin, whom he hoped desperately was still in one piece.  
Dean watched his brother go, and made the stupid mistake of taking his eyes off of the demon, who unfortunately knew exactly when to seize opportunity. Dean saw stars when the fist collided with his head, and he tried hard not to shift his weight or let the demon loose. Gritting his teeth he pressed harder. He swung at Dean a few more times, getting a couple hits in. Finally, he went in another direction, catching Dean in the gut again, making him wince heavily, and ease up a bit out of instinct.  
Cain jumped on his chance, inverting the situation immediately by pinning Dean. He looked up to see Sam helping Quentin out of the kitchen. The taller Winchester helped Quentin lean limply against the doorframe, and came at him. Cain awkwardly ducked, having to surrender his oppressing position on Dean to avoid being slashed by Ruby's knife.  
Cursing, Dean sat up, slightly breathless. He got up when he saw Cain had staggered to his feet as well. Both eyed each other, and their respective weapons on the ground. Dean's shotgun was nearer to him, and Cain's knife had been kicked to rest behind Sam, who stood at the ready. "Dean, lemme just—…"  
"No," Dean growled. "I wanna gank this sucker." Dean didn't know why this demon pissed him off so much—there was the obvious reason, he'd killed six people for no reason, almost killed a seventh. But there was something else. Ever y demon had something malicious in his eyes, something Dean had learned to recognize. That thing was so clear to Dean in this demon's case, that he knew he had to kill this freak right here, right now.  
Cain growled, frustrated. He had to get to his damned knife. Looking around, he could see that from his position he didn't have much of an advantage at all. Sam stood in front of the knife, clearly oblivious that he was keeping it from Cain at all. And Dean's shotgun—aha! Cain smirked at Dean, who for an entire minute, had no idea what Cain was doing when he dove toward the floor. Before Dean caught on, Cain already had the firearm in his grasp, and Dean was torn between diving at him and backing away from the loaded gun.  
Sam lunged without hesitation, however, and Cain saw it coming—these brothers were just too predictable—so he flipped the gun in his hand, and swung it like a bat, hitting Sam square in the head. The big lummox came tumbling down immediately, and Cain managed to grab Ruby's knife from his slackened grip. He turned on Dean, the shotgun gripped in one hand by the muzzle, and the demon-killing knife in the other. Sam groaned and rolled limply on the ground, and Cain could see in Dean's eyes that he wanted so badly to see if his little brother was okay. "He'll be fine," he sneered, grinning, "Peachy, even. See, as I'm sure you know, Dean Winchester, he's not the one you should be worried about. He's got a free pass as far as I'm concerned. Guess being Lucifer's vessel really pays off, eh?"  
Dean growled, very pissed at the demon, but not as pissed as he was at himself for letting him live this long, _and_ get a hold of both their weapons. But he was so angry right now; all he needed were his bare hands so he could strangle this douche. So while the demon was still smirking it up, Dean rushed him. He swung immediately upon approaching the slightly surprised Cain, and managed to catch him hard in the jaw. Cain grunted and stumbled back slightly, trying to regain footing and strengthen his grip on the knife. He blocked another hit from Dean, and then leapt forward slightly, landing a harsh headbutt. Dean winced and immediately staggered back, mumbling curses. He saw stars and spots in front of him, and he was clumsily staggering toward the demon again. His ears were ringing from the impact, loud and irritating, but the sound he was focused on, was the faint cackling—it sounded so far away, but he knew the demon was just in front of him. Dean readied his fists, holding them up, preparing to fight again, but just as his vision adjusted, he was rushed by the demon, who slashed with the knife, precisely across his chest.  
Dean's flannel fell open where the knife had slashed off buttons and revealed a long cut across his upper chest. He glanced down at the injury, ignoring it as it wasn't severe at all, but when he looked back up, the demon was grinning even wider and laughing louder. Brows knitting together, Dean looked back down at the cut. Suddenly it dawned on him, this entire thing was a set up, the demon _wanted_ to be caught. Blood seeped through the remains of his shirt, and he peeled it off, revealing the tattoo on his chest, a protective seal against demonic possession. Said tattoo, however, had been broken when Cain slashed Dean's chest. "Oh, hell no," Dean said, a little less threatening than he'd wanted. He tried to move back, away from Cain, but the demon just opened his mouth, letting a black, rushing smoke soar out and straight at the oldest Winchester's face.


End file.
